


He Comes At Yule: A Winter Solstice Ballad for Lord Greg, the Lonely God Upon His Mountain

by Sashataakheru



Category: Taskmaster (UK TV) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Challenge fic, Community: story_works, Ghosts, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mythology - Freeform, Pagan Gods, Poetry, Religious Themes, Rituals, Spirits, Winter Solstice, Yule, alex as a priest, another weird au sorry guys, bits of anubis, bits of odin, greg as a god, prose poetry, the restless dead, the wild hunt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-06-02 05:48:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19435168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sashataakheru/pseuds/Sashataakheru
Summary: Every year at the Winter Solstice, Lord Greg leaves His mountain lodge to lead the Wild Hunt, gathering up the spirits of the restless dead to take back to His Hall. This year, things don't quite go as planned.





	He Comes At Yule: A Winter Solstice Ballad for Lord Greg, the Lonely God Upon His Mountain

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the story_works Midsummer/Midwinter Magic challenge 2019.
> 
> The title {the lonely God] Who Is Upon His Mountain is borrowed from Anubis, which fits with my conception of Greg - either as king or God - having his throne and palace on Mount Snowden. Taskmaster s8 has also lent me to headcanon a connection to Odin, via the portait where he is only shown with one eye, along with all the ravens they're showing in the breakers, and Odin is one of the traditional leaders of the Wild Hunt. Along with the Taskmaster being canonised as a giant shadowy figure who is always watching and who sees everything, well. You can see how I got to this point, right? :D?
> 
> Poem pattern is [A131112.](https://oeis.org/A131112)

Hark!  
Here comes the Hunt!  
Beware!  
He comes at Yule!  
Horses hooves and hounds are baying, onwards, onwards!  
Hark!  
Here comes the Hunt!

* * *

Only in the depths of winter does He rise from His slumber  
  
The lonely God rides again to claim the dead for His Hall

* * *

Hark!  
Here comes the Hunt!

* * *

Tended by His lonely priest, Lord Greg lives upon His mountain throne in His hunting lodge  
  
Where He is tended by His Champions, who guard His Hall and those who live there from trespassers, with hounds from Hel and back  
  
And in the temple His little priest, Alex, counts down the days till the Hunt begins.

* * *

Hark!  
Here comes the Hunt!

* * *

A month before the Solstice comes, Alex leaves his mountain home to announce the arrival of the Hunt to all  
  
To walk among the villages, to warn them all of his Lord's arrival, that they might prepare their tributes now so that when the Solstice comes, Lord Greg will be pleased, and the dead He collects will pass them by.  
  
The hinge of the year brings fortune or famine, the Hunt decides the fate of all who see them, dispensing justice as they ride throughout the land, Lord Greg at the helm of His ghostly army of the Mighty Dead  
  
But do not get in His way, for anyone caught under His horse is at the mercy of His Hounds.

* * *

Hark!  
Here comes the Hunt!

* * *

Alex the priest goes forth at night, in robes of red, lit by lantern light, walking through every village, calling to all who hear,  
  
"He comes, He comes, He comes, the Lord of the Mountain rides again!  
Solstice comes, and the Hunt approaches, when Lord Greg will ride amongst you!  
Make peace with your dead, prepare now your tributes, the time has come, and winter fast approaches.  
He brings the cold winds now.  
Beware!  
You have been warned!  
He comes, He comes, He comes!"  
  
And in every village, Alex the priest is welcomed with fearful hospitality.  
No one is willing to upset the one who serves the Lord of Death who is soon to ride amongst them, in case He decides to punish them.  
And Alex accepts their kindness though he is acutely aware that they will never be friends.  
And he sees the wariness in their eyes as they see him approach, his lantern held high along with his staff as a beacon.  
  
"He comes, He comes, He comes!  
Beware, the Lord of the Mountain comes!  
As the sun retreats, so Lord Greg comes from the mountain, and the Wild Hunt begins!  
Prepare yourselves!  
Prepare your tributes!  
The Mighty Dead draw near as the winter closes in!  
Make sure you are not trampled by His wicked hoard!  
He comes, He comes, He comes!"  
  
And all around him, Alex feels the dead closing in, and it makes him shiver.  
Only Lord Greg's protection saves him from their clutches.

* * *

Hark!  
Here comes the Hunt!

* * *

Returning to the temple, Alex bows to his shadowy God, having carried out His mission to spread the word about the Hunt to every village in the land.  
  
Alex shivers as he feels His cold hand on his head, alone, and yet lonely, the only one sacred enough to be in His presence, a slave, and yet free, bound to obey and willingly devoted to his Lord, chosen as a child to hear His mighty voice, called to His temple, given to a God, marked by His name alone, outcast to the mountain, bereft of comfort, save for that given to him by his Lord, who has always cared for his priest.  
  
It's always cold here.  
Alex kneels on the stone floor as requested, and he feels Lord Greg's shadow surround him, embrace him, whisper to him, filling him with dread, as much as with love, until those hands become solid, and Lord Greg is with him in the flesh, ready to ride, as He kisses His priest and thanks him for his service, telling him what to do next to prepare for the Hunt.  
It's the same every year, but that doesn't matter.  
Alex follows His orders and prepares His armour, His Horses, His Ravens, and the Hounds, making sure His weapons are sharp and ready, and taking care of His riding party as they arrive at the Hall.  
Everyone has arrived for the Hunt tonight, and the Hall is filled with joy and song as Alex takes care of them.  
  
Lord Greg greets them all with open arms, welcoming them all to His Hall.  
There, do they feast, with food upon the altar brought by His priest, who tends to his master and His guests before they set out to ride.  
There do His Champions begin their magic, speaking protections over Him and His hunting party, with the powers He has granted them, and it invigorates Lord Greg's soul to hear them sing their magic for Him.  
And the dead in the Hall emerge from the shadows to bathe in His power as He prepares for His most sacred night where He goes out into the world to collect the dead and give them comfort.  
Petitions are made, requests for Lord Greg to find family, to pass on messages, to collect the long-dead reluctant to let go of the land.  
  
And Lord Greg accepts them all, knowing they might not all come to pass, but more than willing to try, which is why the dead do stay with Him, because He takes care of them and gives them shelter.  
But He knows letting go is hard for humans, and some of the dead He will find are ones He has seen for many years, waiting for them to be ready to come with Him at last and take up peaceful residence in His Hall.  
  
Lord Greg has all the patience in the world for them, and that's why He rides every year, coming to collect the dead who are ready to die.

* * *

Hark!  
Here comes the Hunt!

* * *

Lord Greg leads the Hunt down the mountain at midnight, when the sky is clear and the stars shine so bright, heading down the old pathways to find the villages and towns.  
  
In the first village they find, the streets are empty, save for the lanterns lighting up each house, either red, or gold, and all the little altar tables sit there filled up with offerings and tributes of the dead.  
Anyone who saw the Hunt would see them pass by in a wicked blur, unable to fathom how they could travel so fast, but to the Hunt, time moves differently.  
It slows, drips, ripples, and pours, into strange and unusual shapes.  
Lord Greg can see the shadows of the dead, those hanging around the altars and the lanterns, and those still cowering from Him, unwilling to leave.  
It is those that He approaches.  
  
Lord Greg cuts a frightening figure in the darkness, all shadow and dim radiance and absolute power, commanding the dead to His side as He gathers them up.  
Something moves off to the side, and Lord Greg spots a face looking at him.  
A human face.  
A living face.  
Standing taller than any man, the blood of mountain giants in His veins, He simply says, "Come to me," and the figure obeys, stepping out into the street, cradling a small toy dog in their arms.  
"Who's was it?" He asks.  
And the figure says simply, "Simon's, my brother."  
And Lord Greg takes it, knowing exactly who it belongs to simply by the memories attached to it.  
Things smell of their owners, whether they had one or many, and Lord Greg knows this.  
This is part of His work, taking possessions to the dead from their loved ones who are ready to let go of them.  
"I'll make sure he gets it," Lord Greg says.  
"Now be on your way, the Hounds can smell blood a mile away."  
The figure retreats inside, and Lord Greg traces a sigil in the air to protect them.  
That house has been visited.  
Lord Greg takes the offerings from the table and sends them back to the temple, where Alex will collect them all through the long Solstice night.  
  
But warmth is but one side of His nature.  
Fear the wrath of the Mighty Dead as Lord Greg dispenses His justice and rage at those who have done wrong, have failed in their duties to the dead, who have not been adequately punished for things they ought to have been punished for.  
The dead in His Hall make requests, you see, they are always watching, always waiting, with long memories that never forget.  
It is down to Lord Greg to sort the vindictive from the just, to decide what requires His intervention, and what really just needs people to sit down and talk to each other.  
But He is not always a just and kind God.  
That is for other Gods.  
Lord Greg remembers.  
He hears.  
He listens.  
Nothing escapes His attention.  
He is always watching, always seeing, always hearing how people talk, what they say, what they do.  
He has His own list, and woe be to those who find their names on it.  
Anyone who sees His Hounds on the night of the Hunt is not long for this world.  
They are big black spectral beasts, all fog and mist and the low growls of anger that rumble the earth.  
Their eyes see everything.  
They know who they are seeking.  
Lord Greg looses them at the beginning of the Hunt, and they run, and they fetch, doing His bidding as they round up those who require punishment.  
His Ravens, too, seek out those who require His punishment, and mark out the houses of those who will see no good fortune for the next year until they mend their ways.  
That is how Lord Greg walks the earth.  
  
Tonight, three in this village require His attention.  
The Ravens bring the spirits to Him, those who have been causing problems among the villagers, and the Hounds keep them in place.  
These three will never come to His Hall.  
Just as the living can anger the dead, so can the dead anger the living, and some spirits will never find peace.  
They are too lost in their own selves and their own pain to find peace.  
Lord Greg can see into their hearts, and finds them wanting.  
They don't beg.  
They throw spite.  
The Hounds bite and attack, keeping the spirits in place.  
He doesn't need to speak.  
He simply reaches into their shadowy bodies and takes their names, crushing them in His giant hand and out of existence.  
Their bodies he leaves to the leader of the Hounds, who burns and consumes the spirits, taking their existence away so they can no longer cause trouble.  
Perhaps a harsh punishment, but Lord Greg only has so much patience.  
He doesn't have the time to warn more than once.  
If a spirit shows no sign of wanting to change, you can't force them to.  
It's better for everyone to expunge them and solve the problem once and for all.  
But they are only the first of many such spirits Lord Greg has in His sights.  
  
The night always feels different when Lord Greg and the Hunt are passing through.  
The Longest Night keeps everyone inside as the cold winter closes in.  
The wind howls, blasts through the streets to signal the Hunt's presence.  
Fires dither, perhaps go out, the lights look strange.  
In the dark silence, sometimes, the sound of horses' hooves can be heard on the roads, along with the barking of dogs.  
And if you're really unlucky, you might see the hunting lanterns, lighting the way, casting strange shadows as the air grows so very cold just for a moment, when you can see nothing, but feel in every atom the presence of the Hunt.  
  
Never turn to look at them.  
Never let them see you.  
While the Hunt passes, look away, turn away, keep your fires close, pray He won't be stopping at your house tonight.

* * *

Hark!  
Here comes the Hunt!

* * *

He is feeling spiteful tonight.  
The Hounds are uneasy.  
There are too many restless dead around, filling the air with their rage and confusion, taking their pain out on the living, in need of being calmed.  
  
But He is in no mood to calm them.  
He has no time for dead who wish to rattle cages, shake bones and disturb the living.  
Riled up by a particularly vengeful spirit, Lord Greg has no interest in taking them anywhere near His Hall.  
He must gather them up instead, and so His Hounds give chase, the riders pursue their quarry, travelling through the land as they seek to round up all the restless dead and deal with them once and for all.  
He draws His mighty sword and leads the chase, pursuing an army soon to be defeated, as He and His fellow hunters cut down any spirits who fail to get out of the way.  
He cannot keep peace in the land while the dead are rebelling.  
Lord Greg has no time for questions or trials.  
This uprising must be crushed.  
  
And back in the temple, Alex feels the change in the air, feels the temple shrink, fill with tension.  
He's very closely bonded to Lord Greg on this night, and he feels the dead creeping close up the mountain, daring to approach now that his master isn't there, and Alex feels very, very afraid now.  
He musters his courage and calls for the Champions, who guard the temple on this night for this reason.  
"Champions, be on your guard! The restless dead are coming!" Alex cries,  
as he tries to think what to do.  
What can he do?  
He's just the priest.  
He has no magic.  
He has no skills.  
He anchors his God to the world, that's all.  
He hears the Champions cry, and their footsteps surrounding, running, weapons drawn, and then something chills him as he stands before the altar, wondering what to do, paralysing him with cold fear as a hand lands on his shoulder.  
"No! Leave me!" Alex cries,  
as the hand grasps him tight, filling him with fear.  
He feels Lord Greg's presence, His confusion, as the spirit tries to possess Alex and perhaps kill him.  
All Alex hears is harsh whispering and voices in his head, whispering madness and trying to break him, telling him his God isn't real, can't save him, doesn't care about him, and Alex almost believes it, if he wasn't so bonded to his master.  
Their hearts beat as one that night, and Alex feels His rage at the gall of these spirits desecrating His priest!  
And then all he's aware of is one of His Champions, Ser Kerry, grasping his arm tight and pulling him back as she swings her glowing sword at the spirit to defeat it.  
"Get out of the way, priest, this is our fight!"  
Alex does not need to be told twice, and runs into the sanctuary, where Lord Greg's power is the strongest, muttering prayers and protection spells under his breath as he listens to the fight all around him.  
  
Lord Greg sees them all turn back towards the mountain, His mountain, knowing now what their plan was for this chase.  
He rallies His Hounds, and His Ravens, sending them onwards, back to the Hall, where they can watch and be His eyes and His ears, as He turns the hunting party back to the Hall.  
The one night when He isn't there, when His Hall is unguarded, when His attention is elsewhere, that was their plan.  
But Lord Greg is faster, swifter than they, and His Hall is not as defenceless as they think it is.  
He binds himself to Alex for this very reason, so He always knows what's happening in His Hall.  
They had crept up in shadow, attempting to invade, to take what was His, letting the Hunt be a distraction for Him.  
But Lord Greg won't be defeated as easily as that.  
He catches up, cuts them down, making sure that as few of them as possible get to the Hall, where His Champions can handle them until He returns.  
His rage is overflowing now.  
There is no mercy left in Him.  
They dare to attack on the night of the Hunt!  
When His weapons are sharpest, and His Hounds keen to taste blood!  
When He has all His best hunters with Him this night!  
There is no escape.  
Lord Greg cuts them all down.  
A trail of vanquished spirits makes a fog that clings to the mountainside.  
Lord Greg cuts a path through it, leading the hunters back to the Hall.  
There is no time now.  
Lord Greg dismounts and leads the charge, making sure to protect those spirits in His care and to distinguish them from the invaders.  
Perhaps another reason why they chose to invade the Hall.  
To make it difficult for Him to tell them apart.  
But Lord Greg is not stupid.  
He knows who belongs here.  
He marks them all with His name, and it glows in the darkness.  
The shadows are all that He needs to cut down.  
His Champions withdraw now to ward the Hall from outsiders.  
While in the sanctuary, Alex the priest hides.  
Feeling the rage of his master.  
Feeling helpless to assist Him.  
Praying under his breath.  
Reciting the litanies.  
The hymns of the Solstice, of the Wild Hunt.  
Singing the songs to keep Him safe.  
Singing to his God.  
Singing to himself.  
Trying not to give in to the rage that his master holds in His heart.  
Trying not to be afraid.  
Failing at both.  
Feeling paralysed again, but it's all of his own doing.  
He kneels, curled up, before His altar.  
Begging, begging, begging to be saved.  
Feeling the dead who live here raging all around him.  
The air is filled with chaos, with pain.  
Alex can't tell who's meant to be here.  
Are some of these spirits hostile?  
Alex can't see the spirits.  
Just feels the sanctuary grow very cold until he's shivering, huddling into his robes, begging for help.  
Praying for his master to come.  
  
Lord Greg hears him calling, knows he's afraid.  
With urgency, He fights His way to the sanctuary, fighting off shadows, fighting off ghosts, fighting off spirits who shouldn't be here.  
Destroying all those who dared to invade, who swore themselves to a vindictive spirit, who now give up their chances of being released into the afterlife.  
On any other night, perhaps He would have shown mercy, but not on the Hunt, on the Solstice, when His power is at its peak.  
He cuts them all down, destroys them all with little care.  
He cares not for their protests.  
He cares not for their regrets.  
How dare they invade His Hall on this night!  
He will show them His wrath and clear out His Hall as His Champions work their magic to keep them all out.  
But first He must go and rescue His priest.  
He can feel all the spirits swirling all around him, confused and afraid.  
In the sanctuary, He finds Alex curled up and scared, clinging close to His statue, clutching his beads, as his prayers for protection slip from his lips.  
Alex is so very cold, so very afraid, but his heart warms up when he feels Lord Greg draw near.  
He can't really see all the spirits now swirling, but feels them pressing down on him, like fog, suffocating him.  
Lord Greg finds the interlopers and finishes them off, sending them back, and releasing the tension.  
The remaining spirits flee, and Alex collapses right into Lord Greg's arms as He carries His priest and lays him on the altar.  
"Lie still, let me cleanse you, in case they have wounded you," He says.  
Alex simply lets his master work, trying to calm down.  
All he's aware of are his master's hands moving all over his body, and a queer sensation filling him weirdly.  
Smoke surrounds, and Alex grows afraid, fearing he's been possessed without knowing.  
He hears a voice screaming in his head, which makes him cry out, and then all he can feel is the pain as the spirit is cut loose from his body, and Alex surrenders and faints in His arms, his soul terrified.  
Lord Greg cradles him until he wakes, taking care of His priest as He promised He would.  
Elsewhere the Champions finish the fight, and the hunting party sends the rest on their way.  
Then all now is peaceful, the Hall is now safe.  
But the dead do not celebrate.  
They simply gather around.  
Watching Lord Greg take care of His priest.  
Praying that Alex is going to be fine.  
Some of them sing stories.  
Some of them sing songs.  
One of them gently strokes his forehead.  
Lord Greg holds him close and kisses his head, hoping He's done enough to protect him.  
Then the Champions come and start singing their magic, circling around him, setting the wards.  
Lord Greg goes calling, calling for Alex, seeking his soul that has fled in fear, calling it back to his body.  
Silence settles over the sanctuary.  
  
Alex wakes with a start, unsure where he is, except that he's in the arms of his master.  
Lord Greg strokes his hair, holds him close, calms him down.  
For a moment, Alex can't remember what happened.  
Then it all comes back, all the fear and the cold.  
All Alex sees is the face of his master, gazing down at him, smiling.  
And all he can hear are the Champions singing.  
While the room fills with magic and the spirits calm down.  
"Just breathe, my little priest, you are safe in my arms.  
Nothing can harm you now, the danger's passed.  
You've served me well, I'm so proud of you.  
Now just lie here and be still, I won't leave your side.  
Just listen to the songs on this long winter's night.  
Listen to them singing the danger away.  
Listen to the stories our grandmothers told.  
As the fires rekindle and the warmth returns.  
I chose you Alex.  
I marked you from birth.  
This is where you belong, right by my side.  
We're bonded so strongly together, you and I.  
Nothing and no one can break us apart.  
They didn't win tonight.  
Never again shall the Hunt be interrupted by rebellious spirits.  
So to make up for tonight, tomorrow we ride.  
We will finish the Hunt as we always intended.  
One more night where the dead walk the earth.  
Where I can gather them up and make peace with their souls.  
Just one more night, that's all I ask of you.  
Can you do that for me, Alex, my little priest?"  
"Yes," Alex breathes.  
He would always obey.  
Nothing pleased him more than serving his master.  
He would find his strength.  
He would find his voice.  
He would tend to his duties and collect all the offerings.  
Tomorrow, again he would anchor his God.  
And tomorrow, the Wild Hunt rides again.  
But that's for tomorrow.  
Right now, all Alex wants is to be in his God's arms.  
To know he is safe and proected from harm.  
  
Alex lies in His arms until the dawn breaks.  
When the sun streams in through the sanctuary.  
Catching on the windows.  
Sending shadows running.  
The last of the singing brings the sun back.  
Voices in chorus welcoming the light's return.  
And all Alex knows is the warmth of his God.  
His strong arms around him.  
His voice calms him down.  
His hands gently cradle him, rock him to sleep.  
Lord Greg won't abandon him as He watches over him.  
He sends them away, all the spirits and the dead.  
Sends the Champions away to take care of His guests.  
Until it's just Alex and his God in the temple.  
Silence between them as the dawn turns to day.  
Lord Greg stands up and lets Alex see the sunrise.  
Letting the warmth of the sun sing to his soul.  
"That's what it's all for, Alex."  
  
Lord Greg makes a bed out of furs, skins, and blankets, where Alex can sleep and rest his weary head, before the work of the Wild Hunt begins all over again as the dead rise up.

* * *

Hark!


End file.
